


it's always the end of the world

by MMonster



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Crossover, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Humor, Multi, Work In Progress, crossover no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMonster/pseuds/MMonster
Summary: Dimension traveling is a tricky piece of magic with a lot of margin for error. When Buffy and Willow find themselves in a world not their own, but on the brink of an Apocalypse, saving it from doom becomes a matter of their own survival.Or how season 8 could have looked like with some added logic, humor and the Apocalypse expertise only Buffy and Willow can offer. Plus some romance, because Daenerys and Jon are meant to be.





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Oh, no.”

“Guess it's wrong again, Wills.”

She sighs, tired.

“Buff, I think I'm...”

She never finishes the sentence, eyes closing and body loose with unconsciousness swaying towards the ground. Buffy quickly catches the redhead before she can hit the dirt, eyes on the people nearby. They look normal, human, hair and eyes of usual colors. But they dress as if they are competing for best costume at a medieval fair, and Buffy would be hardly pressed to name a winner. She has to reign in the impulse to snort.

The blonde shivers as snows falls in flutters around her. The people milling about seem to finally notice the new presence, a peasant type of woman stops mid step when she looks over at them, eyes widening. She is swaddled in lots of fabric, as most others are, and Buffy shivers again just looking at her. There's a purposefulness moving the people of this place that accounts for the minute it took for any to notice Buffy and Willow, newly arrivals to this one dimension out of the infinite number of existing ones.

But the peasant woman does notice them, yells, and in a flurry of fur capes and boots crushing the muddy snow underfoot, Buffy is quickly faced with dozens of swords, big and small, pointing at her. As they don't attack and form a tidy circle around her, she doesn't bother to get the Scythe, which is still strapped to her back.

She takes a deep breath; her soul as tired of this as Willow's slack form in her arms. She must make a pretty interesting image, a 5'4 skinny blonde holding a passed out woman in her arms as if it's nothing; wearing clothes that aren't only completely alien, but also woefully inadequate for this weather, which Buffy is equaling to her last and only visit to Alaska.

A man, wearing head to feet black furs and leather, yells something to her, voice rough and demanding.

Buffy refrains from laughter. Just what she needed. She understood not a word of what he said.

“That's not a language I know.” She responds anyway, shrugging. He says something else, it sounds like a question.

She presses her lips in a 'too bad' expression.

“Sorry, dude.”

There's a flurry of movement and the crowd parts, revealing a somber-looking man dressed in gray and black furs. The first thing Buffy thinks when seeing him is that he has great hair, considering she highly doubts these people have the same amount of hair care products that she's used to. It's so black it shines, curling towards his jaw in artfully messy strands, though it's tidy on the top. It accentuates his face, long and pretty in a manly way, with his scruff beard and scattered scars.

The man asks her something, voice as heavy as his closed off expression.

Buffy shrugs again, now honestly frustrated. The woman in her arms begins shivering in earnest, still lost to this world, and Buffy does her best not to follow.

“I can't understand you. It's just the story of my life, you know? Travel dimensions to do some good. Get lost. Get lost again, and again. End up in a weird medieval dimension where people can't even speak English and I might just freeze my ass off before Willow can gather enough strength to move us again. Just peachy.”

For so many people so closely together, everyone manages to be really silent. The somber-looking man just stares, face frozen in a frown that Buffy can't help but think looks like constipation.

She stops herself from laughing, again. But it bubbles up regardless, with an edge of desperation. She snorts and coughs to cover it.

Understanding that they don't speak the same language, the man pulls his cape back, revealing a sword strapped to his hip. He then slowly pulls it off before putting it on the ground. He motions to her.

Buffy frowns in confusion, before it hits her.

“Oh, you want me to be unarmed. Okay, I can do that. You seem nice enough, maybe.” She holds Willow with one hand for a moment, balancing on one leg so that the other can support the redhead's body. She pulls the Scythe out of it's strap and offers it to the man, hilt first.

He steps forward and takes it.

“You better give me that back later!” She tells him. He ignores her, motioning for a few of the men to come forward, forming a personal escort for Buffy and Willow.

She doesn't let anyone else carry the witch, even as she starts drooling a bit on her top. But she does follow the somber dude when he walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

It's over half a day later when Willow finally awakes. Though Buffy can't be really sure, since she doesn't know the time and has no idea how late in the day it was when they arrived. But night has come and gone, Buffy has had two meals given to her, slept her own share and counted two hundred and twenty six stones in the wall in front of her. She covered Willow with the heavy blanket given to them, and is herself holed up in a thick mat of fur that might be a cape, though she couldn't find fastenings.

“Ugh.” She hears Willow complain, moving on the one cot afforded to them. “My mouth is all fuzzy.”

Buffy hands her a waterskin. She spent a good half hour analyzing it earlier, when it was first given to her. It's made of leather and crudely stitched together. The water tastes earthy and it wasn't totally clear when Buffy cupped a bit of it in her hands. But, she supposes, if it's something her Slayer constitution and Willow's witchness can't take care of, they are screwed anyways.

Willow gulps the water down.

“Did I sleep for long?” The witch asks.

Buffy, sitting on the ground opposite her, shakes her head.

“Less than last time. Around 15 hours.” Her sense of time is honed enough she's fairly sure of that number, even with the lack of clocks.

“What happened?”

“They welcomed us with a five star room and a yummy three course meal.” Willow just stares at her, unamused. “They don't speak English. Or we don't speak whatever language people here speak. A not-too-tall-dark-handsome and broody guy took the Scythe and we got this nice little cell in return. There's even a bucket!” She points to said bucket, which she's in desperate need of using, but has managed to avoid so far.

“Oh, fun.” Willow's response is so dry it makes Buffy pull the waterskin from her grip for a sip. “What now?”

“Now, you do your witchness so that we can get the heck out of here, Wills.”

Willow shakes her head as if to clear it, running a hand over her tired face.

“I have nowhere near enough power for that right now, Buffy. I need time to build up my juice, or time to connect with this plane's mojo. Either way, we might be here for a few days at least.”

Buffy reigns in her own frustration, seeing her friend's dejected posture. They hear loud voices outside the wood door to their cell. The words are clear but utterly meaningless to them. Both stay silent for a moment, straining to understand anything.

“Could you do something about that, at least?”

“Huh?”

“A spell so that we understand them? And they us? If we're staying here a while, we should go native, you know. When in Rome...”

Willow thinks for a moment, gaze unfocused.

“I've never cast a spell exactly like that, but I have a few ideas.”

“Treat me like your own personal guinea pig.” Buffy proclaims, forcing a deceptively light smile for Willow's benefit. She's rewarded by the redheads' soft quirk of lips.

“Don't I always?” Willow's smile turns sardonic.

After a couple of tries, one of which gets Buffy speaking exclusively in French – a long lost dream – and another that has her hearing Willow in Spanish while still not understanding a lick of it other than 'hola' and 'madre', Willow manages to get something going that the witch proclaims 'feels right'.

Next they hear someone moving outside, they call out to them and are rewarded by a rough voice telling them to be quiet and that someone will be along to question them soon.

The indignity of Buffy's desperate need to use the bucket in the room makes the wait a long, torturous one, even if it's actually less than half an hour. Buffy keeps glancing at it and would swear on her favorite earrings that when Willow takes a deep breath and gets into a meditating posture, the witch is magicking her own urine away instead of concentrating on gathering this plane's mana; Buffy knows how a 15-hour-nap can make one desperate for the loo.

But her thoughts of disappearing urine and buckets are mercifully interrupted when a heavy knock sounds on the door. She quickly and gracefully gets to her feet when the door slides open, revealing the same broody type from earlier, accompanied by an older, balding man in a green tunic and black cape. They stop by the door, staring at Buffy, who is standing straight wrapped in furs bigger than her and Willow, who is sitting in the bed still under her blanket.

The older man approaches and Buffy notices he has a bundle in his hands.

“My ladies, I fear your garments are not appropriate for this weather. I've lent some clothes from women who could spare them, to ward off the cold.” He offers the bundle to Willow, who smiles softly at him and takes it.

There's a moment of uncertain stillness. It's broken by the rough voice of broody guy.

“Who are you? How did you get here?” There's a protectiveness to his tone that Buffy can appreciate, even if it prickles at her pride.

“I'm Buffy, this is Willow.” Willow waves, shy. Dark-handsome looks nonplussed. “We are… demon hunters, from a different dimension.”

“You mean a different country?” The older man asks.

“I mean a whole different world. With different people, lands, languages, inaccessible by boat, car, horse, plane and whatever other transportation you have here.”

Befuddled might be a good word for the men's perfectly blank expression at Buffy's words.

“It's why we couldn't talk to you when we arrived. Your language doesn't exist where we come from.” Willow tries to explain.

“How do you speak it so well now, then?” The older man asks.

“I did a spell.” Willow says, simply.

“Are you a Red Sorceress?” The balding man asks, expression scrunching in suspicion at the word 'spell'.

Willow looks at Buffy, confused. The Slayer just shrugs.

“I have red hair and I do magic, but I wouldn't call myself a 'Red Sorceress'. That sounds stuffy.”

“You don't serve the Lord of Light, then?” He presses, ignoring her unusual word use.

“I serve no Lords, no. Only ladies.” Willow quips, it falls flat.

“Sorry for asking, but who are you?” Buffy interjects, frustrated by the conversation.

Remembering his manners, the older man's expression softens as he introduces himself and his companion.

“Pardon, my ladies. I'm Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand to the King in the North, Jon Snow.”

“I have no time for this.” Jon Snow proclaims, voice gruff with impatience. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Willow quickly starts talking.

“We mean no harm. We got lost traveling dimensions, pretty much. Had to leave our own to solve a problem and then kept hopping dimensions as I can't get the exact right balance of intention, location and power to take us where we are supposed to be. And dimension traveling is a _very_ complicated piece of magic that...”

“Willow.” Buffy cuts her friend off as she sees the mounting frustration in Jon Snow's posture, supposedly the King of whatever this place is.

She sighs.

“What can we do or tell you so that you would believe us?” Buffy asks.

Ser Davos and King Snow exchange a look. The first is the one who answers.

“We don't need to believe you at this time, my lady. What we need is to assert that you and your friend are no threat to us. There's a war coming, the end of the world is near. We have no time to waste watching our back among the living or holding prisoners who could be allies. You have shown strength and the weapon you brought with you is beautifully crafted. Sorcerers might not be the most reliable but at this time of dire need they are welcomed. If you can add to or at least not hinder our cause, we shall do you no harm.”

“And how can we prove that you can trust us? You would have to trust us first, so we have an opportunity to do that.” Willow reasons.

“You say you are demon hunters?” King Snow asks. Buffy and Willow nod resolutely. “I say you came to the right place. We have a whole army of demons to be defeated.”

A smirk spreads on Buffy's face, a familiar fire burning in her belly at his words, the Slayer side of her that she has taken so long to come in terms with awakening at the promise of rightful violence.

“Give me the Scythe and point me the way. My demon-chopping skills can always use some honing.”

“If you can give us access to more information about what's going on, me and Buffy would be happy to help while we are here. Though we hope to leave in a few days, when I recover enough power to make the trip.” Willow complements.

King Snow answers, his frustration deflating to tiredness.

“The Night King and his Army are less than a sennight away. You may not have enough time to recover before he is at our gates, and if that happens, you will perish with the rest of this world.”

There's a moment of silence at his heavy words.

“We are really good with Apocalypses.” Buffy's voice is cheerful as she answers. “We will totally help you out. Right, Wills?”

Willow smiles at her.

“Of course. With whom can we talk to get really up to speed?”

Ser Davos and King Snow look at each other, communicating silently. With a minute nod from his King, Ser Davos gives Willow and Buffy a gentle smile.

“I will wait outside while you change, my ladies, and then I shall take you to someone who can tell you all about the situation.”

“I must depart now. I have other matters to attend to.” King Snow informs. “But we may talk further over dinner, at the Great Hall.” He nods respectfully at them, before turning and leaving quickly. There's a heavy weight to the set of his shoulders as he steps out that Buffy and Willow can recognize from a mile away.

 

* * *

 

After they are changed and trailing behind Ser Davos, who makes sure to tell tidbits of information about the place they are in as they transverse through halls, stairs and rooms, Buffy can't help but ask.

“So… where's the nearest toilet? I think I might just burst if I hold it in one more minute. It would not be pretty.”

Willow laughs, not noticing Ser Davos' surprised expression at the crudeness of the small, pretty woman following him.

“Yep, it would not be pretty. And I need to go too.” When they look at him expectantly, he simply stops and changes course. He's one to heed warnings, as improper as they may be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be collecting unfinished WIP's. So, if you want to help a poor author finish her work, leave me inspiration in the form of comments. I'm shallow like that.
> 
> Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

 

News of the sudden arrival of two foreign women in strange, light garbs, reach Daenerys in the morrow, through Missandei. An uncharacteristic tiredness made Daenerys sleep till later than usual and she broke her fast with Missandei in the privacy of her quarters. Now, they converse about the previous day's happenings while the other braids her hair, as they often do, and Missandei tells about how the women appeared as if from thin air; and how the blonde one, despite small and dainty looking, was able to carry the one with red hair on her arms with seemingly no effort at all.

“You saw it?” Dany inquires at the bewildering tale.

“Yes, Your Grace. I had been talking to Grey Worm by the walls' edge when I heard the commotion. When I turned to look, I could see them both; a blonde girl holding another in her arms.”

In the list of the many strange, improbable and downright impossible things Daenerys has witnessed, caused herself or heard of, this one ranks near lowest. Still, it's strange, and she finds herself curious about these foreigners.

“Has someone questioned them?” She asks.

“Lord Snow and Ser Davos did earlier today, Your Grace. Though I'm unsure how, since when they arrived no one could understand their words. I believe Lord Snow deemed them not a threat and they are not kept in a cell anymore.”

Dany hums noncommittally in answer, thoughts deviating towards Jon Snow as he's mentioned. She hasn't seen or talked to him since their ride with her dragons the day previous. Remembering it makes something soft and warm blossom inside her chest. She had been nervous for Jon when she proposed he ride Rhaegal, as much as she tried to hide it behind levity. But the kinship he has shown with her sons is unequaled, and thoughts of the worst happening to her in battle spurred her into taking that chance.

If she falls and there's no one to guide her children anymore, they may become as much of a danger to the living as the Army of the Dead is. But now, with Jon as a second rider, they will have a friend to care for them if something befalls her. She mentioned nothing of her thought process to Jon, knowing he would protest if she did, vowing he would protect her from harm. But even the best men can be foolish when those they care for are in danger, and Dany has accepted it as her job to avoid the outcome of choices made with the wrong priorities in mind.

She has learned, love is beautiful and to be cherished and protected. But reality doesn't go away because one wishes it so. She would know, for she spent most of her life wishing for a different one. First, she wished for a home unreachable to her. For the love and care of a brother who saw her as nothing more than a valuable, if galling, possession. Then, she wished for a kind husband, for revenge for her family and her birthright back. It wasn't until she took action that she understood; reality only changes if we make it so. When she struck back her brother, when she learned ways to pleasure her husband and he fell for her, when she walked into a pyre with three stone eggs.

And now, when she rode North beside Jon and gave him the three more precious things to her, her sons, her heart and her armies. She shall try her best to make sure he uses them wisely. But she has made her choice and will deal with the consequences of it.

“What do you think of the North so far, my friend?” She asks Missandei, suddenly.

Her friend answers promptly, with the same air of calm grace that she rarely seems to lose.

“I'm unused to it, Your Grace. The weather is so cold that it burns any exposed skin, the landscape is frigid and gray. But Winterfell is beautiful and the Godswood is unlike anything I've ever seen.”

Dany nods in agreement, turning to look at Missandei's face.

“What about the people? What do you make of them?”

That makes the darker woman pause, considering her answer.

“I believe they are as unused to us as we are to them, Your Grace. There's distrust and the people are wary of Southerns, as they should be, considering their history of dealings with the South.” She says diplomatically.

Dany's skepticism at her friend's euphemisms is clear on her face. It makes Missandei's dignified posture crack. She gives Dany an apologetic smile.

“I don't like it here very much. There are no others of my color and the cold seems to have seeped into my very bones to not ever leave. The Northerners have been polite, but as frigid as the frozen earth of this place.”

Dany rewards the younger woman with a smile tinged by sadness.

“Thank you for speaking plainly, my friend.” She turns back and Missandei resumes her work on her hair. “I agree with much of what you've said. If not for Jon I would have felt less welcome here than when we first went to Yunkai. Jon warned me that the Northerners are a proud, headstrong people, very wary of change and foreigners. And here we come, bringing much of both.”

“We also bring salvation. They would be wise to see that. It may take time to show them your worth, Your Grace. But they will see it, as we do.” Missandei reassures. Dany turns back to her companion.

“We shall show it to them. I can't expect them to trust me, follow me, before they know who I am. Jon's support goes a way to giving me an opportunity to do so. But it rests on my shoulders, as it always has.” She says resolutely.

Dany feels like proving her worth is all she has been doing since she married Drogo. The prospect of earning this hardened people's favor gives her a thrill she isn't entirely proud of, since it stems from the ruthless conqueror she knows is inside her, as it has been in any Targaryen before her. But as always, she must find balance. How to remain a just, good ruler and still earn the North's submission? Between that and worries of The Night King's army, Dany's head buzzes with the need for action.

When Missandei is done with her braids and she is dressed in the fine garbs fashioned in Dragonstone for her trip North, Daenerys turns to her friend and advisor.

“I shall take Ser Jorah and look for the foreign women. If they speak our language, I might as well question them myself. I must be aware if they are a threat to us.”

Daenerys finds them in the library, standing around a square table with an open map of the known world, held in place by candles. Samwell Tarly is with them, speaking enthusiastically about a subject of choice. Dany hesitates at the young man's presence, regret and shame surging over how her own actions have sullied any relations she may have with Jon's best friend.

But she didn't apologize then, when she told Ser Jorah's brave savior that she executed his father and brother, because she is a Queen and she gave the Lords Randyll and Dickon Tarly a choice, because she honored their word by assuming they knew their minds and wouldn't be broken by chains. And so, she won't apologize now. Feelings of shame are uncalled for and she pushes them away; she can be regretful of what those happenings have made of the current situation, but she doesn't regret her actions.

So, she steps forward, accompanied by Ser Jorah for protection, but otherwise alone.

“My Lord.” Daenerys greets Lord Tarly.

Conversation stops and all turn to her. Samwell mumbles a 'Your Grace' that can barely be heard over the sudden silence that overtakes the room. The blonde girl really is diminutive, standing near her own height. Her golden hair shines in the light, as it rests on her shoulders. Her companion is a bit taller and her hair is a brighter red than even that of Lady Stark's. The blonde's skin has a healthy tan reminiscent of the one she used to have while in Essos; the other is as pale as milk and has freckles adorning her face. Aside from being considerably more pleasant to the eye than most, Dany thinks that, dressed to the part, she couldn't pick them out of a line-up of commoners. Nothing in their appearance indicates they are different from any other she has encountered.

Yet, if Ser Jorah is to be believed, they are from a different world altogether. The knight made sure to inform his Queen of all Ser Davos had learned from his conversation with the women earlier. Of all the unbelievable things she has heard, she must put this between some of the most notable.

She's unsure for a moment on how to address such people, but settles on a brief nod.

“I thought I would make acquaintances with the new arrivals at Winterfell.” She informs, politely.

The women watch her for a moment, none of the usual feelings she tends to invoke in people at first meeting present on their faces. No fear, contempt or hatred; no amazement nor lust. It strikes Dany, how unused she has become to being seen, for the foreigners study her as if they see _her_ first, not her titles, her conquests or even her Valyrian appearance.

She cleans her throat, suddenly self-conscious as she hasn't been since her brother was still alive. Ser Jorah takes the opportunity to rush a presentation.

“This is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” She's grateful for the abridged version of her titles, for she thinks further ceremony might not be appreciated in this company.

The women continue to stare at Dany as if she's equal to them, with nothing to her but what she herself can offer with her body and mind. Finally, the blonde one speaks.

“I'm Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, of House Summers, rightful Queen of nothing, unless you count the new Slayers as a kingdom.” She turns to her companion. “What do you think, Wills? Could it count as a kingdom?”

Daenerys decides to let the slight mockery Buffy Summers made of her titles slide, for she doesn't know what passes for courtesy where they come from. The other woman shrugs in response to her friend. She smiles at Dany when she speaks to her, shy and kind.

“I'm Willow Rosenberg. No titles.” She then glances at Ser Jorah. “And you are..?”

“Ser Jorah Mormont, Queensguard of Queen Daenerys.”

“Nice to meet you both.” Willow Rosenberg answers, Dany can almost believe she's sincere. There's a weight to her shoulders, however, as well as to Buffy Summers. They both look young, but Daenerys can tell by the assuredness with which they hold themselves, coupled with the world weariness in their expression, that they have lived much in their years.

“I was told you claim to be from a different… world? Is that true?” She inquires, cutting off further small talk. Lord Tarly has turned his attention to the map on the table, which he studies with such care it's as if he's by himself, or avoiding looking at something unpleasant. The others, however, have eyes on Dany.

“Yep.” Buffy Summers answers casually, as if talking of nothing of importance. Her companion glares at her for a moment and the young woman frowns. “What?”

“I'm sorry.” Willow Rosenberg interjects before her companion can say anything else. “Yes, uh…” She looks at Ser Jorah with an expression of growing disquiet.

“You can refer to Queen Daenerys as 'Your Grace'.” The knight offers kindly.

“Oh, thank you. Okay, yes, Your Grace, we came from a different world. Or dimension, as we would call it, since there are many worlds in each dimension and we are not from any of the others in this one...” The young woman blushes when she realizes she's ranting. It's endearing and Dany finds herself warming up to her.

The blonde girl, however, seems still very much indifferent towards her, though not hostile.

“And may I ask what brings you here?” She continues with a gentle smile to the agitated girl.

“We got lost. Dimension hopping is a tricky type of magic and getting the balance of elements just right is a bit like trying to throw a live bee at a puppy, you know? Not very easy and you can get hurt trying. Oh, you have puppies and bees here, right?”

Daenerys has to smoother the urge to laugh at the manner of speaking of the woman. But she pushes that aside at the implications of what the girl just said.

“You can do magic?”

“Oh, yes. I'm not on top form right now because getting here sapped pretty much all my juice. But I'm good at it.”

“Please, Wills. She's the most powerful witch of our world and of any worlds we have been to so far.” There's pride in Buffy's face as she speaks of her friend. But it's colored with something Dany can't quite put her finger on. She can guess magic is the same in their world as it is here; as amazing as it may be, it comes at a price.

“What about you, Lady Summers? I was told you are stronger than most.”

“'Lady Summer's' sounds wonky. Just call me Buffy, please. And you could say I'm stronger than most, yes.”

“Alright, 'Buffy'.” The name is strange on her tongue. “And the title you gave… 'Vampire Slayer'. I believe I've never heard of it.”

“Slayers don't exist here, probably.”

Daenerys nods and conversation ceases for a moment when someone knocks on the door. Ser Jorah leaves her side to see to it. He's back quickly and warns her of a request for an audience with her from a Northern Lord. She has to reign in the impulse to sigh in annoyance; she can't afford to refuse the opportunity of warming one of the mulish Lords to her rule.

“Duty calls. However, I would love to hear more about you and your… story. If it agrees with you both, you may accompany me for tea later today?”

The women exchange quick glances. Buffy shrugs and nods, the redhead is the one who responds.

“We would like that, Your Grace.”

“Perfect. Farewell, my Ladies, my Lord.”

“Bye.” Buffy answers. Her companion waves to her and Ser Jorah as they leave and as soon as the door closes behind her, Dany snorts.

“I like them.” Ser Jorah announces.

Dany doesn't respond, but she's fairly sure she agrees with the simple statement, as the levity of their quirky manners helps her maintain her temper in check well into a difficult audience with Lord Boggs.

 

* * *

 

 

“You really don't like her, do you?” Buffy asks Samwell as soon as the door closes behind the Queen and her knight.

The young man frowns momentarely, before his face turns to something akin to shame.

“I have to say I don't, my lady.”

“What do you guys have with calling people 'lady'? My name is Buffy.” She huffs.

“Why don't you like her?” Willow interjects, curious. Despite the meeting being very brief and superficial, she finds she enjoyed the interaction she had with the Queen. She sounded intelligent and seemed worried about the right things. Plus, she is so pretty she looks ethereal.

Samwell studies the map for a moment, but Buffy and Willow wait as he thinks on how to answer.

“She murdered my father and brother.” He reveals, finally.

“What?!” Buffy and Willow exclaim, shocked both by his words and by how passionless they sound. He seems nonplussed with how appalled their expressions are and explains further.

“In one of the many battles for the Iron Throne, my father and brother were fighting for Queen Cersei. Queen Daenerys couldn't stand for that.”

“So this 'Queen Daenerys' won a battle and executed your father and brother because they wouldn't support her rule?” Buffy presses.

“Well, yes.” He confirms.

“And I kinda liked her. Ugh." Buffy twists her mouth as if something unpleasant is making her queasy.

"Even if they were fighting for the wrong side, she should have locked them away or something, not just killed them. Human life should never be taken when there's an alternative.” Willow reasons, conflicted over her positive impression of the Queen.

“You would think that's common knowledge, right?” Buffy comments sarcastically. But her brow is furrowed in obvious distaste, and it's clear she's taking the conversation seriously.

"She told me she gave them a choice. 'Bend the knee or die', I would suppose." Sam's expression is bitter, though it twists to something closer to sadness as he continues. "My father was a cruel man, I would say he deserved his fate; he could remain locked up for 30 years and not change his mind about a single thing. But my brother didn't deserve that. He was always kind to me, even when I was punished by father for my many shortcomings when we were little."

“How could she do something like that and be fine with it?" Willow asks, genuinely. She's a murderer and she will always be. A torturer and executioner. As evil as Warren was, he was human, she had no right over his body or life. The decision to disregard that and take justice into her hands is one that haunts her still, every moment. She can never forget and that's the price she must pay in order to be a decent human being despite it all. But she can't imagine that a person who would do something similar and not be affected by it could be good.

“Death is often the sentence passed to traitors and enemies. All rulers execute criminals. And Daenerys is a Queen.” Samwell exhales a deep breath, his body deflating a little. He walks back a few steps and sits heavily on a wooden chair.

Buffy and Willow exchange a glance, taking a few moments to mull over his words.

"She seemed so warm, nice." Willow says despondently.

"Appearances are deceiving, isn't that what people say?" There's hardness in Buffy's tone.

Their tea with the Queen will be even more interesting than she previously assumed it would, Willow thinks. She just hopes everyone will survive it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if anyone's characterization is off and why. I like constructive criticism as much as I like compliments, since they help me improve my writing. But if you only have compliments for me, I WILL take them too :D


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